September rain falls on the house.


    In the failing light, the old grandmother


    sits in the kitchen with the child


    beside the Little Marvel Stove,


    reading the jokes from the almanac,


    laughing and talking to hide her tears.


    She thinks that her equinoctial tears


    and the rain that beats on the roof of the house


    were both foretold by the almanac,


    but only known to a grandmother.


    The iron kettle sings on the stove.


    She cuts some bread and says to the child,


    It''s time for tea now; but the child


    is watching the teakettle''s small hard tears


    dance like mad on the hot black stove,


    the way the rain must dance on the house.


    Tidying up, the old grandmother


    hangs up the clever almanac


    on its string. Birdlike, the almanac


    hovers half open above the child,


    hovers above the old grandmother


    and her teacup full of dark brown tears.


    She shivers and says she thinks the house


    feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.


    It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.


    I know what I know, says the almanac.


    With crayons the child draws a rigid house


    and a winding pathway. Then the child


    puts in a man with buttons like tears


    and shows it proudly to the grandmother.


    But secretly, while the grandmother


    busies herself about the stove,


    the little moons fall down like tears


    from between the pages of the almanac


    into the flower bed the child


    has carefully placed in the front of the house.


    Time to plant tears, says the almanac.


    The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove


    and the child draws another inscrutable house.


    By Elizabeth Bishop